The Frightened Chameleon: A Case for Superintendent Anthony Slade, page 3
"Slush. A good word, m'sieur," Duval approved. "Slush is trodden snow turning to mud, is it not?"
Slade nodded. "Your knowledge of English is very good, Duval."
The French detective waved a hand expressively.
"It is but little. You see, my chief value to the Maquis was a good eye and a knowledge of your tongue, my dear Slade." He smiled slowly. "I'm not sure which was the more useful."
"But you think the good eye," nodded Slade.
Duval's smile widened. He found himself warming to this Englishman who evinced so much genuine understanding.
"What was this American crook's name?" he asked.
"Ward Packer. Does it mean anything?"
Duval was sitting upright, stroking with one finger the ridge of his nose. His gaze was focused on the inkwell, which was not more than eighteen inches from his face. His expression was grave.
"I don't know," he said quietly. "That name may mean something, it may not. I had perhaps better tell you that for some time past Madame Lemette had let her villa to a man who is a stranger in Boissy-le-Duc. I have his description. Excuse me a moment."
Duval sorted among his papers, finally found the one he wanted, then read aloud a description of Ward Packer that was unmistakable to the English detective. The mole on the left hand, and an unusual triangular scar on the scalp, just above the top of the right ear, fixed the identity of the recent tenant of the Villa des Bégonias.
"That's Packer," Slade nodded. "Another grain of corn distinguishable from the chaff, inspector."
Duval smiled, but it was the smile of a man making a meaningless gesture.
"Alors." He waved a hand, hesitated. "Only he was known as Monsieur Jacques. The housekeeper at the villa is a little old woman who looks like a wrinkled walnut and talks like a shrew—when she decides to talk. We have not found her very talkative. Perhaps you can persuade her otherwise."
Slade took the hint.
"I shall be delighted to try, but where you have failed, my dear Duval, I can scarcely hope to succeed."
"Not myself personally, you understand," Duval said apologetically. "Merely an assistant. A young man who has much sentimental respect for old age."
"You give me encouragement, Duval."
"I but return your own gift."
A quarter of an hour later a Sûreté car was speeding them out of Paris and south-east towards the tucked-away village of Boissy-le-Duc. They left the car in the charge of Duval's driver and walked down a leafy lane to a large gateway of crumbling brickwork. The iron gates were thrown wide and looked as though they had not been closed in years. They were bright with rust and creepers entwined among the lower grille-work. Beyond these wide portals stretched an unkempt drive of uneven shale surface. It appeared to curve between some large sprawling elms that looked strangely artificial.
"Madame Lemette has not spent much on upkeep," Duval observed with a suggestive sniff as he and Slade turned in through the gates and crunched their way along the drive.
They passed under the archway of elms and came upon the villa suddenly, and the effect was rather startling. The house was in a clearing, and unimpeded sunlight covered the southern face, giving the yellowish stone a warmth that was inviting and at the same time pleasing to the eye, so that one did not, at first glance, observe the dilapidated state of the paintwork and the crumbling sills under the windows. A broad sweep of cracked concrete surrounded the place, and over the tops of shrubs rose the roofs of outhouses. Slade noted the old oil patches on the concrete outside the garage which stood to one side, as though shamefaced at intruding its presence.
The two detectives stood there for some moments, looking at the place.
Duval said, "The fishing should be good to afford adequate compensation. A draughty place in winter, I fear."
"Those elms obstruct any view," Slade pointed out.
"If they were not there one might get a splendid view of a cement works about five kilometres away." Duval turned his head. "What are you thinking, m'sieur?" he asked.
"It's rather odd you should ask, Duval," Slade told him, "for at just that moment I was wondering why that particular suite on the third floor of the Hôtel de Bourbon had been taken. Gentian had not stayed there before?"
"No," Duval admitted, "it was the first time. He booked through a secretary. I too found that interesting. Also the fact that there is a balcony outside that third-floor suite which runs around one side of the hotel, and passes a staircase at the end of a corridor."
"So that anyone wishing to leave the suite unperceived could go on to the balcony, walk to the window opposite the staircase, and then climb through and—well, vanish."
Duval shrugged. "I could not have put it better, my dear Slade," he said. "That is exactly what one could do."
"That leaves the bloodstains—among other things."
"They are being analysed."
"You mean?"
"If they are human, we shall see."
"And if they are not?"
Again Duval lifted his shoulders. "I am keeping an open mind."
"But you are thinking that perhaps it was not Charles Gentian who booked that suite."
This time Duval did not shrug. He contented himself with a wry smile.
"You are persistent, m'sieur, and of course persistency is a virtue, we are told."
Slade laughed quietly. "Sorry to turn it into a vice, Duval."
"Not at all, my friend. You see, I too have been persistent, but it has done little good. Who but Charles Gentian would have made that gesture with Michel?"
"Michel?"
"Pardon, m'sieur. I forgot you did not know the lift attendant's name. It is Michel Peydel. A million francs is a great sum to him. A thousand English pounds, three thousand American dollars. Money is truly international." Duval sighed. "It is so easy to translate. But a million francs for some sheets of notepaper, that is fantastic, we agreed."
"We did indeed."
"So I ask myself, a hoax, a mistake, a deliberate move in a complicated game—what? And I am left still asking myself, and at the same time—"
"Don't tell me," said Slade, "I know. Trying to keep an open mind."
"Exactement!"
As though by tacit consent the two detectives fell into step and approached the entrance to the yellow-stone villa. They were some twenty feet away when from somewhere inside came the sound of a shrill and piercing scream.
Duval swore under his breath and dragged an automatic from his pocket. He started running, and not for the entrance. He was making for the rear, and Slade followed at his heels. The two men had to skirt the garage and the outbuildings, and they passed through a broken side-door in a wall before coming to what had been a herb garden many years before, but was now overgrown and almost indistinguishable from the jungle growth that had invaded the grounds. They observed a back door, which was open.
Duval was leaping across the large stone flags paving the kitchen yard when a figure appeared in the doorway, and a very English voice said, "Come quickly. Oh, it's horrible—horrible!"
She swayed forward, and might have fallen had not the French detective caught her. He murmured something in a breathless whisper, which Slade did not catch. In fact, Slade was reaching out a hand to steady the young woman as Duval released her. Her face was empty of colour save for the garish line of her lips and the dark circles of her eyes.
"Now, Miss Leadbee," Slade said, "you must take a grip on yourself. Just tell me what is horrible."
If Slade's apparent acquaintance with the young woman came as a surprise to Duval, the French detective made no sign. His intelligent eyes swept over the scared young woman, noting her well-cut clothes, her features, the gloved hands and the handbag clutched in the bend of her left arm. He said nothing.
"Inside, Mr. Slade. It's dreadful. He has hanged himself."
"Miss Leadbee, will you remain out here while Inspector Duval and I take a look inside?"
The woman's mouth trembled. She nodded.
The two detectives made their way into the Villa des Bégonias. They did not have far to seek to find what had shocked the young woman. Hanging from a beam in one of the downstairs rooms was the body of a middle-aged man. The face was not a pleasant sight. The man had been dead for some hours. The tongue lolled grotesquely from the mouth. The lips were stretched back, as though flexed in a grimace of macabre derision, and saliva had matted the dark beard flecked with grey.
The two detectives stood silently regarding the motionless body. There was no table or chair near. Against a wall by the window leaned a pair of ordinary household steps.
Duval said, "Who is this Mademoiselle Leadbee?"
"Gentian's private secretary."
The Frenchman's brows went up, and Slade thought fit to correct an impression that could be the wrong one.
"You mustn't take the term to mean what it could mean," he said. "Gentian entrusted her with some personal correspondence, she made appointments for him, and attended to his engagement book. But she had nothing to do with his really intricate affairs. She's a nice girl, inspector, engaged to an air-line pilot."
"And we find her here," said Duval. "You agree with me about . . ."
He jerked a thumb at the hanging body.
Slade nodded. "Of course. Murder. He could not have got up there himself. Whoever put him there was a trifle too preoccupied I'd say, and put the steps against the wall. I should say strangled first, and conveyed here. How do you feel about it?"
"Absolutely. The absence of Madame Roffert offers confirmation. She is the housekeeper."
Slade walked closer to the hanging body, pointed to the left cuff of the brown jacket.
"A button has been torn loose," he pointed out.
Duval pursed his lips and rubbed a finger along his moustache.
"I'll phone for an ambulance and get a medical report," he said. "Let's hear what the nice young Mademoiselle Leadbee can tell us."
Duval might have been a little sarcastic, to judge by his choice of words, but when Slade glanced at him there was an impassive expression on the Frenchman's face that betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
They went back through the kitchen and passed outside into the clear air. For the first time Slade became aware of the shrill chirping in the neglected garden. The place seemed a veritable bird sanctuary.
Mary Leadbee was sitting on an old barrel, her head bowed. She glanced up as the two men approached, and Slade saw that she had made some attempt to compose herself and fix her make-up.
"Tell me," said Duval, "do you know that dead man?"
"Yes."
"Ah, so!" Duval sounded pleased at this ready response. "His name, please."
"Pedro Gonzalez."
"A Spaniard?"
"Yes, an exile since the civil war," she explained. "I have had little to do with him myself, but I know that from time to time he was in touch with my employer, Mr. Charles Gentian. I believe he worked for him in some way. I do not know how. Many people work in many ways for Mr. Gentian."
"And what brought you here, mademoiselle, to this house?" Duval inquired.
"A telephone call."
"So. From whom, please?"
She hesitated before saying, "Mr. Gentian."
Duval looked at Slade. The English detective was frowning. He knew what was in the other man's mind.
"Miss Leadbee," he said, "are you sure it was your employer who asked you to come here?"
"It was his voice," she said. "I couldn't be mistaken, although there was something strange in what he said."
"And what did he say?" Slade asked.
"He phoned from Paris. That was not unusual," she explained. "He has phoned me from most capitals in Europe. He told me to take a plane and stay the night in Paris, and to come out here to-day. He said he would meet me."
There was a pause when she stopped. Slade was the next to speak. He asked, "And what was strange, you felt, in this request?"
"Well," she confided, "he told me to come to Madame Lemette's villa at Boissy-le-Duc."
"Ah!" said Duval, jumping to a conclusion. "Madame Lemette had been killed in that car accident in England, and in the circumstances you thought it strange, hein?"
Mary Leadbee shook her head as she rose from the barrel and brushed her skirt.
"No, that wasn't it, m'sieur," she said. "Always Mr. Gentian refers to Madame Lemette as Simmy. It's his own name for her. Her name, as you know, is Simone. He would even refer to her as Simmy when mentioning her to me. He was rather fond of her. He has said several times that she gave him more publicity than any other journalist in Europe. She, you may know, first called him the chameleon of international finance. He has a chameleon in his study to remind him."
As she finished she waved a hand.
"You know where Mr. Gentian is staying in Paris?" Slade asked her.
"No, nor under which name. He usually employed some other name when staying abroad. He found it convenient."
"So you cannot contact him," put in Duval.
"No, m'sieur."
"And you have no other instructions, Miss Leadbee?" Slade added.
"None, except to say nothing about the call to anyone. I was to take a plane and tell no one of my going."
"You obeyed that instruction?"
Once more she appeared to hesitate.
"I rang up Captain Farling and told him," she admitted at last.
"Captain George Farling," Slade explained to Duval, "is a commercial air pilot who is engaged to Miss Leadbee."
"Ah, yes." Duval nodded, keeping his bright eyes on the girl's face. "And what did your fiancé say, mademoiselle ?"
"What he always says," she told him, with a shy smile. "That Charles Gentian is no better than a crook and if I continue working for him I shall only have myself to blame for the consequences."
She turned her head quickly and burst into tears.
CHAPTER IV
THE HOUSEKEEPER
THE hostelry of Le Lion d'Or boasted a small garden off the main street of Boissy-le-Duc, and the central square of grass was mostly occupied by six small green-topped iron tables with green-slatted chairs to accommodate those of the hostelry's patrons who preferred to partake of their boc or apéritif in the open air.
Duval led his English colleague to the farthermost table and lowered himself on to one of the green chairs. He placed his hard-felt hat on the grass beside his feet and visibly relaxed. A man with a toothy smile brought two tall bottles of blonde bière and glasses and Slade filled his pipe. Through a thorn hedge at the end of the garden he watched a tethered goat tearing at tussocks of coarse grass quite unconcernedly while a small boy threw clods of dry earth at it. A plane en route to the Riviera droned like a winged insect between high banks of cirrus cloud. The English detective was experiencing a strange sense of unreality. The atmosphere of the place, the sight of Duval, the label on the beer bottle, the boy and the goat, all conspired to leave him with the feeling of being a tourist on holiday.
The beer was very cold and most acceptable. Duval drank half a glass and wiped his mouth in a large handkerchief before saying, "You know, Slade, I find a very interesting discrepancy. The Bourbon reception people told me Peter Penny booked through a secretary. Mademoiselle Leadbee is Charles Gentian's secretary. She did not book the suite. If she had she would have known where he was. Or have I missed something, my friend?"
Slade shook his head.
"Gentian could have been lying. I mean when he booked at the Hôtel de Bourbon."
"True," Duval nodded. "But why? It would serve no useful purpose, would it, when he has a secretary? Obviously it was not Gentian who phoned her and told her to come to Boissy-le-Duc."
"Then someone can imitate his voice," Slade said. "Are you suggesting he has a double, Duval? That hare lip, now. It would take some clever faking."
Duval finished the remainder of the beer in his glass and drained the bottle.
"Look," he said, spreading his hands on the table. "It is not difficult to imitate a voice. Radio entertainers are doing it every day. So we agree it is possible to imitate Gentian's voice well enough to trick his secretary. But there is a slip. The voice does not refer to Simmy. It refers to Madame Lemette, and Gentian would not have said that to his secretary. So much for the voice. Now the hare lip."
"Well?" Slade waited.
"Gentian is booked at the Hôtel de Bourbon under the name of Peter Penny. He arrives, and he has a hare lip. All right. But note one thing, my friend. He has not been to that hotel before. It is a departure from custom. Why? Could it be because at the hotel where he usually stays an artifice would be seen through? At the Hôtel de Bourbon they accept a man who looks like Charles Gentian and calls himself Peter Penny. You see? But supposing he is not Charles Gentian?"
"That brings us back to your original alibi, doesn't it, Duval?" said Slade.
"I'm not sure. No, not at all sure," the French detective admitted reluctantly. "This thing is very simple, but it is made to look complicated. The housekeeper disappears, but she will be back. Why did she disappear? Because someone wanted to hang the body of Pedro Gonzalez at the villa, and that same someone wanted Mademoiselle Leadbee to find it. There is the burned-out car in England, and two bodies to be accounted for. But by whom? By Charles Gentian or someone else?"
"Someone else with a hare lip, Duval?"
"Or shall we say someone who is using a man with a hare lip and a person who can speak with the voice of Charles Gentian? Again, look at the personal aspect of this thing we are tackling, m'sieur. An American currency swindler, a French journalist noted for her unusual coups, an exiled Spaniard. All dead. And our chameleon is missing. He seems to be a very frightened chameleon, Slade. Perhaps he has reason to be."
